And—though I’d never admit it out loud—one of the few people in this valley whose intelligence rivals her stubbornness.
“Did she say why she wants to meet?”
“No. Only that it was important and she’d prefer to discuss it in person. She suggested coming here tomorrow morning.”
What could Keira McGregor possibly want from me? The last time we were in the same room, she called my approach “vulgar mercantilism disguised as Disneyland preservation.”
“Confirm the meeting. Ten o’clock. My office.”
Martha nods, typing quickly.
“Oh—and one last thing. Your mother called. She reminded you about tonight’s family dinner. Apparently, your Aunt Agnes will be there, and she has ‘important news.’”
I bite back a groan. Aunt Agnes’s “important news” usually translates to local gossip—or yet another thinly veiled attempt to introduce me to a suitable future Mrs. McKenzie. Ever since Heather and I broke up a few months ago, my family has treated my single status like a national emergency.
“Thank you, Martha. Tell my mother I’ll be there.”
She nods and leaves, and silence settles back in—broken only by the occasional creak of wood as the barrels breathe.
Keira wants to meet me. In private.
The same Keira McGregor who fiercely defends the very land we’re trying to acquire. The McGregor whose family has been ours’ rival for generations.
What could possibly be urgent enough for her to cross that line?
A truce? Unlikely.
A collaboration? Even less.
A surrender? I’d have better odds of seeing Nessie dancing the Highlands Fling on the castle lawn.
I resume my inspection, but my mind stays fixed on the mystery.
Whatever Keira wants, one thing is certain—tomorrow won’t be an ordinary day at McKenzie Distillery.
But first, I have a family dinner to survive—and an aunt to convince that I am absolutely not interested in the pastor’s “charming daughter,” no matter how legendary her scones are.
I cast one last glance at the rows of aging casks.
Like whisky, do rivalries improve with time… or just grow more bitter?
I guess I’ll find out tomorrow. Ten o’clock sharp.
CHAPITRE 4
KEIRA
How to make a bad idea even worse
I’m sitting in my car at the entrance of McKenzie Distillery, seriously questioning my sanity. Completely. Utterly. Beyond any hope of recovery. My heart is racing, and I’m gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles have turned white. But it’s too late to turn back now. I need Alistair McKenzie to get me out of this mess—ridiculous as that sounds.
“You can do this, Keira,” I mutter under my breath. “He’s just an arrogant McKenzie. You’ve faced him at heritage council meetings. You can survive one private conversation…”
A loud bleat cuts me off, and I jerk so hard I hit my head on the roof of the car.
I spin around—and there he is.
Hamish. Sitting comfortably in the back seat. Chewing what looks suspiciously like part of my cultural center proposal.
